


Of Ballads and Constellations

by elxetera



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), M/M, Singing, Stargazing, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25528297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elxetera/pseuds/elxetera
Summary: It seemed a perfect night to sing Queen songs and go stargazing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 39





	Of Ballads and Constellations

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello!  
> First, I want to thank my AMAZING beta, [KaytheJay](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/KaytheJay/pseuds/KaytheJay) you can follow her on [tumblr!](https://justanangelandhisdemon.tumblr.com/). This fic wouldn't be what it is currently without her clever suggestions and edits, so a huge thank you to her!! 
> 
> Secondly, one line in the fic is inspired by my friend Blue from [Twitter](https://twitter.com/justalittlepan). I have it marked with the * symbol. Thanks for shooting me in the feels when you tweeted that, lol. It's a beautiful line, and you deserve all the credit for that. 
> 
> Hope you like this!

They are sitting under a tree, the warm July breeze blowing softly as the sun sinks down behind the water in the distance. 

The long wisps of wisteria and willow hang down from above, gliding and flowing with every puff of wind. The night is comfortable, with every part of nature that surrounds them calm and content. Aziraphale sits, a large novel propped up against his legs, reading. Crowley peers at him every couple of moments, the way his lips move every so often as he reads, murmuring the words of the story aloud, how he taps his forefinger when he comes to a certain phrase that he wants to remember later on. The wind breezes through his white-blonde curls, tousling them. 

Aziraphale looks up, his blue-grey eyes sparkling as they are met with sunlight. “How is the wine?” he asks. 

Crowley glances at the glass that is situated in his hand and takes a long swig. “Divine,” he replies, slightly dramatically. He smirks, causing Aziraphale to chuckle to himself before turning his attention back to his book. 

“What are you reading now?” Crowley ponders aloud, moving so he is laying face down on the grass, gazing up at Aziraphale. The angel holds up his book so Crowley can see the title— _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ by Oscar Wilde. Crowley had met him once, right after he had woken up from his nap in the late 19th century. Seemed a nice, smart man. 

“You’ve read that one a hundred times,” Crowley says.  
  
Aziraphale gives a little shrug and purses his lips. “It is one of my favorites.” 

“Hm,” Crowley sighs, continuing to study his reading companion. 

“What books _have_ you read, Crowley?” Aziraphale then asks, looking up from the page. He stares patiently as Crowley fumbles for an answer. 

“Read the books about that wizard boy with the glasses once or twice,” Crowley mutters. 

“You mean _Harry Potter_?” 

“Yes, that.”

“Still not as good as the classics, though,” says Aziraphale. 

“Classics?” Crowley says. 

“You know, like _Little Women, The Great Gatsby, Jane Eyre._ Those types of books,” Aziraphale explains. 

“Ah. Yeah. I’ve read one of those,” replies Crowley. 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. Um...? _The Da Vinci Code._ ” 

“Now that was a fascinating one,” Aziraphale says, “but it’s not a _classic,_ per say.” 

“Sure, but it made humanity question _everything._ ” 

“Yes, but it was not very accurate, in my opinion.” 

“Oh, Hell, no,” Crowley agreed, “These humans really think they know all there is to know about supernatural-celestial-ethereal-occult-heavenly-hellish-things, but they’ve got so much to learn,” Crowley says. 

“That they do,” agrees Aziraphale. They are quiet for a moment as he sets his head back against the tree and inhales deeply. 

“Any cake left?” Crowley asks, opening the picnic basket that they had brought with them earlier that afternoon. 

“A little bit, I think,” Aziraphale says. “Since when do you eat cake?” 

“Since now. M’hungry,” Crowley says, shoving a rather large piece of angel food cake into his mouth. 

“First time for everything, I suppose,” 

“Not true. I ate those pretzels when we were in Germany, remember?” Crowley says through a mouthful of soft, sweet goodness.  
  
“And they were absolutely _köstlich_ ,” Aziraphale says. 

“Er...yes,” says Crowley, with a single nod, unsure of where that word came from and why he said it. 

“It's German,” Aziraphale deadpans, as if reading Crowley’s puzzled mind. 

“Ah.” Of course it is. Aziraphale never missed a chance to flex the fact that he spoke over 50 languages. _But at least it’s not French,_ Crowley thinks. _I could never stand French._

“That was quite a fun experience,” Aziraphale says. “We should do it again sometime.” 

Crowley smiles. “We should,” he agrees. Aziraphale sets his book aside after a second and moves closer to where Crowley is laying. He copies the demon’s sprawled out position on the ground. Crowley looks at him, his eyes slightly confused, even taken aback at the fact that Aziraphale is suddenly so close to him. “Hello,” Aziraphale says softly. 

“Hi,” Crowley replies. He smiles gently. Had anyone else’s face been this close to his, he may have hissed (which he has been known to do on occasion) and backed away. But he didn’t mind with Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale reaches forward to the container housing the remains of the cake. He takes a small sliver and pops it into his mouth with a satisfied grin. Crowley loves that grin. He calls it his Aziraphale’s Cake Smile, though he would never let him know about that. 

“The sun is going down. You should take those off. You won’t be able to see,” Aziraphale says, gesturing to Crowley’s tinted sunglasses. 

“Mnh,” Crowley says with a slight tilt of his head, implying that he really would rather leave them on. 

“Please?” Aziraphale says. “I hardly ever see your eyes anymore.” 

“Well, yeah. Got to keep them hidden,” Crowley says, his tone making it sound like it is obvious, because in some ways, it is. Most humans would be alarmed to see a man with yellow, slitted eyes standing behind them at a Starbucks or somewhere. Sure, it was odd to be wearing sunglasses at all hours of the day, but the alternative was a woman seeing his eyes and screaming before running away in a cold sweat. That had gotten annoying fast. He really was thankful for shades, and the more stylish they were, the better. He wouldn’t settle for those cheap, £2 ones. Not when he is wearing them as often as he does. 

“I have good eyesight, though. I can see.” 

Aziraphale cocks his head to the side and stares at Crowley with his very best pleading face. 

“Crowley…” he whispers gently. He reaches his hand up and then stops abruptly. “May I?” 

Crowley feels himself sink a little as he relents. “Yeah. Sure. Knock yourself out.” 

“Oh! Really?” Aziraphale says, with a wide, toothy smile. 

“Yeah. Go for it,” Crowley says, failing to keep himself from showing a small beam in return. Slowly, Aziraphale reaches up and tugs the sunglasses away from where they rest on Crowley’s face. He plays with them for a moment, his fingers winding around the hinges before proceeding to fold them with care and set them next to him on the grass. 

Crowley blinks once, something that is not common for him, or so Aziraphale has learned. He is a snake, after all. “See, now? Isn’t that better?” 

Crowley sighs in mock exasperation. “Whatever you say, angel.” 

Aziraphale looks far too pleased with himself as he gazes at Crowley. The sun has almost gone down completely, the stars and moon finding their way into the sky. His bright hair clashes with the darkening sky, almost glowing as though it were a halo. Crowley catches a glimpse of something in Aziraphale’s eyes, something he can’t quite place. It’s an emotion, something he’s definitely seen before but not in this light. 

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale softly, but still startling Crowley out of his reverie. 

“Yeah, angel?” 

“Do you still have...do you still have that guitar that the lead singer of Queen had signed for you...when was it?” 

“Freddie Mercury. 1985. I do.” 

“Oh. Do you...do you think you could...play something on it? Unless you don’t want to of course, you don’t have to. I know you haven’t touched it in a while, and I know you don’t like playing most of the time and—” 

“No, it’s okay, I’ll get it,” Crowley says with a shake of his head and a fond smile. With a snap of his fingers, a prestinene, wooden guitar appeared, a silver signature scrawled on the side of the headstock. Crowley stands and brushes a few stray blades of grass away as he picks up his guitar. He then slowly forms a tree stump with a subtle movement of his hand, and takes a seat, crossing one ankle over the other. 

He hasn’t laid a finger on the instrument in years. It feels so familiar yet foreign to him, the way it rests on his lap, in his hand. He used to tune the guitar so often, but that was because he played it day and night. It really was—is— one of his favorite belongings, which was a rarity for him to have. For as elaborate and exquisite his flat was, he really couldn’t think of anything he truly treasured. Crowley always had thought there was more to be found in experience and in memories, though he would never admit that to anyone. Yes, he kept the odd letter, or postcard from different places he had visited over millennia, you know, for sentimental reasons and all, but no one knew of it. He wasn’t one to openly show that he had a little more than just a weakness for sentiment. 

Perhaps that was why, after all these years, he had held onto the guitar. Sentiment. 

Crowley strums a chord over and over for a few moments, pausing every now and again to re-tune the guitar or tighten certain strings. When he finally seems satisfied with it, he turns to Aziraphale, golden eyes shining. 

“Any requests?” he asks softly, continuing to strum. 

“A song you like, perhaps?” Azriaphale says. 

“There are a lot of songs I like, angel,” Crowley says. 

“I don’t know,” begins Aziraphale, “something slow. Gentle, even.” 

Crowley thinks for a moment. Slow and gentle. That’s new. Especially considering most of the songs he listens to really are quite the opposite of ‘slow and gentle’. 

Except for…

He begins with a chord. Then another, followed by a series of soft strums and other chords, flowing in a pattern. Then lyrics, sung softly, only loud enough for Aziraphale to hear. 

  
  


_Love of my life, you've hurt me_

_You've broken my heart and now you leave me_

_Love of my life, can't you see?_

_Bring it back, bring it back_

_Don't take it away from me, because you don't know_

_What it means to me_

Crowley was not one for singing. He had never done it, at least not in front of audience, and just because he was doing it for Aziraphale now certainly did not mean he was going to do it for anyone else. This was a side of him he had only just begun to feel was safe to show the angel, and even then, he still struggled immensely with letting down his guard. 

But the notes and lyrics just flowed out of him, his fingers gliding across the string like water. 

The slight movements of his fingers as he plays the chords, the melody of the song—it is all like muscle memory. Crowley closes his eyes for a moment as he continues to sing. 

_Love of my life, don't leave me_

_You've stolen my love, you now desert me_

_Love of my life, can't you see?_

_Bring it back, bring it back_

_Don't take it away from me_

_Because you don't know_

_What it means to me_

He opens them once more to look at Aziraphale, who looks back, enraptured. He is wearing the same expression from earlier, and it is only now that Crowley has been able to place what it is: affection. 

Love. 

Now that he thinks about it—really thinks about it, he begins to realize that it’s not even the first, second, nor even the third time he has seen that look on Aziraphale’s face . It’s appeared so many times over the six millennia they had known each other, but he had just been too blind as to see it. 

Crowley was always told that demons could not feel love or love themselves. They couldn’t sense it, give it or experience it. Which was why he always felt far too conflicted when it came to any emotion that was not considered that of a demon. Any time he felt anything other than sinful ambition or anything other than being generally evil, it was like he was going against everything he had ever been taught in Hell, because, well, he pretty much was doing exactly that. 

Then again, Crowley had always been a rebel. That didn’t just mean that he partook in Lucifer’s rebellion-battle-fight-scheme or whatever Heaven and Hell liked to call it. It meant he risked _everything_ . It meant he didn’t give a damn about what the outcomes were going to be as long as it meant that he could have a single moment with something— _someone_ —that he loved. 

There really had only ever been one _someone_ who he really felt that way about; who made him so vulnerable as to be reckless and driven to distraction. Someone who he would run into a burning bookshop for, drive a flaming Bentley for, and escape to the stars for. 

Crowley shuts his eyes tightly for a moment. Oh, this can not be happening, it really can’t. He can’t be falling head over heels in love again with Aziraphale. That was the kind of thing that happened exactly once, if ever. The fact that it was happening for a second time was literally, too good to be true. 

And yet…

He looks up for a split second to look at Aziraphale. He does it before he can stop himself, knowing he is going to regret it fully. 

Crowley feels as though he has been shot with an arrow, directly into the center of his heart. Aziraphale is still sitting in the exact position as before, but his smile has grown even wider, his eyes glittering with an electrifying radiance. 

_Yep. That’s it,_ Crowley thinks, _show’s over._ He is most definitely in love. If only Hell could see him now. He continues to sing quietly. 

_Oh, hurry back, hurry back_

_Don't take it away from me_

_You don't know what it means to me_

_Love of my life_

_Love of my life_

Crowley strums quietly for another moment, savoring the moment. He cannot remember ever feeling this content, this safe. It is like a warm blanket, being laid across his body, encasing him, He never wants to leave. 

“So,” he begins, his voice low. “How’d you like it?” 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale begins with a small headshake. “It was _wonderful_.” 

Aziraphale’s voice has a breathiness to it, and it’s something in the way he adds emphasis to his words that makes Crowley’s heart flutter. It takes him back to their meal at the Ritz, to when they raised their champagne to the wonderful world that they live in. The look in Aziraphale’s eyes, his gorgeous, heart-stopping smile. 

Crowley would not be lying if he said that he would move Heaven, Hell, the Earth and stars for Aziraphale*. It was amusing really, but not in an average sort of way. He just thought it was somewhat funny as he thought about the fact that he would fall from Heaven and run from everything he knows a million times over should it mean that he spends eternity with his angel. 

“You really think?” Crowley says, feeling his cheeks grow warm as a blush creeped onto them. 

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, as though he can’t believe Crowley would think that he would have any other reaction than sheer awe. 

“Okay, well, don’t tell _anyone,_ that I did this for you,” Crowley says, feigning seriousness. 

“What? No, I’m submitting your name for Britain’s Got Talent and all of those shows. Anthony J. Crowley will be on every billboard in London, soon,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley looks panicked for a minute before Aziraphale chuckles. “I’m only kidding, Crowley.” 

“Mm. But yeah,”—he swings the guitar over his shoulder and places it on the ground—“glad you liked it.” He stands and stretches before snapping his fingers, making the guitar vanish. “That just means I’ll have to play it more often,” 

“What, you mean for me?” Aziraphale asks, a sly smile playing on his lips. 

“Sure. For you.” _Only for you,_ Crowley then thinks. They sit in silence for a moment, Aziraphale looking around and Crowley looking at Aziraphale. He wonders if the angel could ever begin to feel the same way about him. 

There have been times when he supposed that maybe he does, but there have also been instances where he assumes otherwise. But, then again, assuming things never did anyone any good. 

“The stars are quite luminous tonight,” Aziraphale says, looking up at the sky. Crowley follows his gaze. 

“They are. Wonder if we can see any of the ones I made,” he replies. “Oh, most definitely,” Aziraphale says. He reclines on the grass and beckons Crowley over with a pat on the ground. “Join me, won’t you?” 

Crowley chews on his lower lip. Laying on the ground. Next to Aziraphale. Looking at the stars. He couldn’t. It really has been all he ever wanted for six millenia, and he felt silly for second guessing himself. 

“I don’t bite, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, sounding serious. Crowley locks eyes with him in and slowly makes a place for himself on the grass next to the angel. 

“I know you don’t,” Crowley says, staring straight up at the sky. 

“You are tense,” Aziraphale points out. 

“No, I’m not,” Crowley says, trying to force himself to relax. 

Aziraphale says nothing. He would have thought, after six thousand years, Crowley would be more comfortable laying next to him, but then again, there is a certain intimacy in lying next to someone rather than standing and carrying a conversation with them. There is a part of him that wants to say something, anything to make Crowley calmer, but Aziraphale knows that the demon has always been tentative when it came to physical intimacy and touch. So he decided to think no more of it. 

“That one up there is Lyra,” Crowley says, gesturing upward. 

“I see it,” says Aziraphale. 

“And that one is Capricorn.” 

Aziraphale ‘umms’ and ‘ahhs’ as Crowley points out different stars and constellations. He knows of a couple of them, but didn’t know that Crowley had helped to build so many of them. 

“Can you see Alpha Centauri?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley is taken aback. They had not mentioned Alpha Centauri in a long time. Almost a year, now. 

“Er...maybe? Not sure,” Crowley says quietly. 

Aziraphale nods. “Oh.” 

“Angel, I’m sorry for that, you know,”  
  
“Sorry? Whatever for?” 

“I told you that I was going to run away. That I wouldn’t even keep you in my thoughts,” Crowley says, his voice not rising above a whisper. 

“Oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale felt the urge to move closer to Crowley. He fought it. “That was so long ago, it is nothing, really.” 

“Except it’s not nothing, is it?” Crowley says. “It was about as equal as me wishing that you were...dead.” 

“Crowley, please look at me,” Aziraphale says, in a way that it doesn’t sound like a command but holds just enough earnestness to make Crowley obey instantly. “I forgive you. I forgave you long ago. It was spur of the moment, it was a mistake. We all make them.”  
  
“But that doesn’t make it okay,” Crowley argues. 

Aziraphale sighs so quietly that Crowley isn’t sure he heard him do it. “Perhaps not,” Aziraphale says. “But it doesn’t mean you don’t merit forgiveness. You may be a demon, but if there is anything I’ve learned from my time in Heaven, it is that the Almighty believes that everyone— _everyone_ —deserves a second chance.” 

Crowley says nothing. 

“May I...may I move closer to you?” Aziraphale asks tentatively. 

“Yes,” Crowley answers after a long pause. Aziraphale slowly shifts so he is laying inches away from Crowley. They are so close that he can almost feel his companions' breath tickle his skin. 

“Crowley, I don’t say it enough, but I value you. No. I _love_ you. I love having you in my life,” 

Crowley definitely feels his heart stop. He swallows hard. 

“Wh-what?” he whispers, trying not to let the word come out in a stammer and failing. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale repeats. The words feel different when he says them aloud. It’s like a burden that has been lifted from his shoulders. He feels lighter, more free, and all with three simple words. “I always have, but I’ve just been so _worried_ . Worried about Heaven, a-and Hell, and _Gabriel._ ” Aziraphale spits out the name as though it tastes sour. 

“I uh—I love you too,” Crowley says his voice wavering out of sheer shock. Aziraphale has just confirmed all of Crowley’s hopes and dreams and now he doesn’t know what to do. “Yeah, I love you too, Angel.” His voice hoarse. He must be dreaming. He _has_ to be dreaming. Yes, any minute now, he will wake up in his bed, the morning sun pouring into his bedroom as the sirens and bustle of London carry on outside his flat. He needs to pinch himself, he needs to wake up. 

“Aziraphale, will you take my hand?” he asks. Aziraphale turns and stares at him, his eyes so full of love and wonder.  
  
“Yes,” Aziraphale replies simply. Crowley exhales and reaches for his hand, clasping it in his own. Aziraphale’s warm palm touched against his, their fingers linked together...it is like a piece of fiction that feels so unrealistic yet so real. 

“It’s taken me far too long to say it, but I’ve always thought it. We are free now. We can run away somwhere. Anywhere, should you like to. We have no one watching us, nothing can stop us from doing it.” 

Crowley turns to face Aziraphale, just making out his soft and truly attractive features in the pale silver moonlight. He can see Aziraphale’s round, perfect nose, and cupid’s bow lips. A soft wind blows, rustling his hair and clothes. Crowley shuffles closer to him, so that their foreheads are just inches away from touching. Crowley could stay in this moment forever. Maybe he should, if he is being honest; just snap his fingers and freeze time just as he did that day in Tadfield. 

“Angel?” Crowley murmurs, holding Aziraphale’s hand tightly. 

“Yes, Crowley?” 

“Thank you.” 

Crowley can feel Aziraphale beam, and his heart leaps. He is flying. He is soaring amongst the stars of the galaxy, breezing and gliding through the night, with his angel right by his side. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! It would really mean a lot to me as an author to know what you thought of this, so please drop a comment or kudos and let me know. You can come find me on tumblr: @ineffable-yikes and Twitter: @elxetera  
> 


End file.
